Page 67 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Felix was already whispering something in the brunette’s ear that made her laugh, a practiced titter that probably charmed less discerning men.

“My friend is devoted to his wife,” Felix announced, wrapping an arm around the brunette’s waist. “Boringly, tediously devoted. But I’m delightfully unattached.”

“How fortunate for us,” the brunette cooed. “I’m Maria, by the way.”

“Felix, at your service.” He stood, offering his free arm to Rosie. “Ladies, shall we continue this conversation somewhere more private? My room has a lovely view of the stable yard.”

Rosie gave Rowan one last speculative look. “If you change your mind, handsome, just ask for me at the bar. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“He won’t,” Felix said cheerfully, already leading both women toward the stairs. “The man’s turned monk since his wedding. It’s quite tragic, really.”

Rowan watched them disappear upstairs, Felix’s laughter echoing down the stairwell. The common room seemed suddenly quieter without his friend’s chatter, leaving Rowan alone with his thoughts and a plate of dubious beef.

He pushed the food around without enthusiasm, his mind churning.

Tomorrow, they would find Captain Veer, and he would finally have answers about his abduction. The man’s name had cost him considerable coin at the Jackal’s Den, but it would be worth it to finally understand who had orchestrated his year of hell.

A group of farmers at the next table were discussing crop yields, their broad accents reminding him of the tenants at Aldermere. Had Selina visited any of them? She’d shown such natural ease with the villagers during the flood crisis. They’d warmed to her instantly, recognizing something genuine beneath her duchess’s facade.

“Another ale, Your Grace?” The serving girl had returned, less nervous now.

“Yes. And bring a bottle of whatever passes for decent whiskey here.”

She bobbed a curtsy and hurried off. Rowan settled back in his chair, prepared for a long evening of his own company.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and gradually the common room began to empty as local patrons headed home to their families.

The whiskey, when it arrived, was rough but serviceable. Rowan poured himself a generous measure, letting the burn distract him from memories he’d rather forget. But they came anyway, as they always did when he had too much time to think.

The Intrepid’s gun deck. The crack of the bosun’s whip. The taste of weevil-infested hardtack. The screams of men during battle, the acrid smoke of cannon fire, the slickness of blood on wooden planks.

He drained his glass and poured another.

The memory of Selina in his arms haunted him—not just their encounter in the kitchen, though that was burned into his mind with painful clarity. But smaller moments too. The way she’d leaned into him at the opera before Felix’s interruption. Her hand on his arm as they’d walked through Hyde Park. The concern in her eyes when he’d returned from the Jackal’s Den with his lip split and bleeding.

She deserved better than a husband who kept her at arm’s length, who couldn’t even share a bed with her without fearing what his nightmares might reveal.

But how could he explain that he sometimes woke thinking he was back on the ship? That the sound of a door slamming could send him reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there?

He could not.

All he could do now was focus on his goal: find whoever had him kidnapped.

His wife was another matter altogether.

CHAPTER 23

“Lord Penderwick looks positively frozen with terror,” Georgiana observed, peering around the bookshop display. “Poor man’s been holding that same book upside down for five minutes.”

Selina followed her friend’s gaze to where Matthew stood near the poetry section, indeed clutching a volume of Wordsworth the wrong way up while attempting to appear casual.

Across from him, a pretty young lady with chestnut curls browsed the shelves, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

“Should we rescue him?” Selina asked, watching Matthew drop the book entirely in his nervousness.

“Absolutely. The poor dear will spontaneously combust at this rate.” Georgiana straightened her bonnet. “Come, let’s work our magic.”

They approached with carefully orchestrated nonchalance, Georgiana calling out with perfectly feigned surprise, “Lord Penderwick! What a delightful coincidence.”

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